Of Parks and Monuments
by lastknownwriter
Summary: Cas still has empty pages in his National Parks Passport Book, and Dean still hasn't learned to say no. This is a one-shot sequel to Past, Present. Enjoy!


_**Author's Note: **__Hello my Past, Present verse friends! I bring you a short ficlet from the PP verse. I've been missing our boys and thought you might like a small peek at their lives too!_

"I think you missed the turn."

Dean glanced at Cas in the passenger seat, holding his new iPhone and staring at the moving dot.

"No I didn't."

"Yeah, I think you did." Cas turned the screen toward him.

Dean rolled his eyes and let up on the gas. "Well, fuck."

Cas chuckled and tilted the screen sideways, comparing the thin lines of the map illustration to the lush, green farmland surrounding the narrow country road they were on. "It's not a _well fuck_ kind of moment, Dean. Just turn around." He twisted and looked behind them. "I think there was a road back there."

"We've been driving for two solid hours, _Cas_," Dean said irritably. "I'm hungry." He pulled into a gravel drive, slamming the gearshift into reverse.

"Do you want me to grab you a sandwich?" Cas already had his hand on his seatbelt clip. "I could feed you," he said low and gravelly and with entirely too much sultry innuendo for a Saturday afternoon in rural Missouri.

"_No._" Dean said forcefully, but he had to bite his lip to hold back a grin. _Fucker._ "I can wait. It's just tuna."

"But you love tuna."

"Can we talk about something else?" Dean shifted uncomfortably. Breakfast was a _long_ time ago.

Cas clicked his seatbelt free and crawled over the backseat. In that position, his right hip was inches from Dean's face.

"Your ass is blocking my peripheral vision," Dean smirked, reaching over to pat his butt.

Cas sat back on his heels, ducked low so his head still cleared the car's ceiling. "I'm trying to distract you from the hunger pains," he winked.

Dean snorted. "In that case, good job."

Cas slumped back in his seat, a snack-size bag of carrots in hand.

Dean side eyed him. "I'm not eating that."

"You will if I tell you to," Cas replied calmly.

"You can't boss me, Professor." Dean slowed again; Cas was right, there was a road ahead.

Cas unzipped the plastic bag and withdrew a carrot. "I can and I will." He held the carrot in front of Dean's lips.

Dean pressed them tightly closed.

Cas rubbed the carrot across the seam of his mouth, slowly dragging the damp, orange tip across his lower lip, retreating and then starting all over again, filling Dean's head with a dozen lovely, dirty images. Cas' face was intent as he worked the tip of the carrot between Dean's lips, pumping it in and out a few times for good measure.

Dean laughed, unable to keep a straight face and Cas popped the carrot inside.

"You're a whore and a cheat." Dean chewed, grimacing. He hated carrots unless they were covered in ranch dressing. Or served with pot roast and a mountain of mashed potatoes and gravy.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Cas said blithely, crunching his own carrot. He lifted another one from the sack to point at a small green sign on the side of the road. "See. Missed it."

Dean turned left, grumbling under his breath. "_You_ were supposed to be the navigator." He scowled at Cas' iPhone on the seat between them. Cas held out another carrot and Dean leaned over to bite it from his hand. He sucked the fingers between his teeth for good measure, grinning when Cas rolled his eyes. "Why'd I bring you if you couldn't be bothered to find us a decent map?"

"For sex."

Dean choked on his carrot.

Cas looked at him unperturbed.

"Right," Dean gasped, eyes watering. "How silly of me to forget."

Cas sat up straight. "I think that's it."

As they topped the last hill, the familiar NPS logo signage appeared. It arose from between two fenced pastures, across the road from a big red barn.

"Strange place for a national park," Dean muttered, pulling into the neatly paved drive.

"Monument."

"Huh?" Dean turned right on the forked road, into the parking area.

"Technically it's a national monument, not a park."

"Looks like a park." Dean turned off the engine. The parking lot edged a wide picnic area, the grass uniformly green and neatly kept, the tables shaded from the midday sun by full trees. "Let's eat!"

Cas grinned. "Don't you want to go in the visitor's center first? Plan our visit?"

"Nope." Dean climbed from the car and reached behind the seat for the cooler.

They were the only two visitors at the picnic tables, although there were other cars in the lot.

Cas handed him a tuna sandwich and, _God bless him_, a bag of Doritos. Dean grinned happily and pushed the bag of raw carrots and a second bag of (fuck his life) broccoli across the table. He would _never_ be hungry enough to eat raw broccoli.

They chewed in companionable silence for a few moments.

Dean swallowed. "So is this just so you can have another stamp in your passport book?" Cas kept the small blue national park booklet in the glove box of the impala, many of its pages stamped and stickered now.

"It's one of the closest parks to us, geographically speaking. It would be silly not to visit," Cas said primly.

"Nerd."

Cas tilted his head. "And your participation in the reenactment ceremony at Gettysburg? That was _my_ nerdgasm?"

"That's different," Dean declared hotly. He grinned, remembering the way Cas' jaw went slack and his eyes blanked upon seeing Dean in his confederate soldier uniform. "Besides. You almost swallowed your tongue. Soldier Dean gets you hot, admit it."

"No," Cas countered, but he couldn't hide his fond smile.

After they cleared their picnic trash, they entered the cool, quiet interior of the visitor's center. The park ranger on duty showed them around the exhibits and gave them times of the short informational movie and guided nature walk.

"I think we'll proceed on our own, but thank you," Cas said graciously.

The park ranger blinked and Dean grinned; he knew how she felt. Cas' smile could be dazzling.

When she heard that Cas was a professor, her eyes lit up. "Have you heard of the Teacher Ranger Teacher program?"

"No, I haven't," Cas said, leaning on the counter in interest.

Dean shifted his stance, wondering if either of these two history geeks would notice if he wandered off for a while. He stopped listening altogether until he heard Cas say, "I _will_ look into that. Thank you, Patricia."

"Look into what?" he asked when Cas joined him at a glass-front display case of farm tools.

"Becoming a park ranger for a summer session."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "A park ranger."

Cas nodded, smiling at Dean's expression. "Yes. Why? You don't think I'd look good in the hat?"

"Does the national park service need a bartender?"

Cas huffed a laugh. "Doubtful."

"Then there's nothing to think about," Dean said firmly, squaring his jaw.

Cas crowded his personal space, not even sparing a glance behind them to see if they were alone before he nuzzled Dean's jaw. Dean instantly relaxed into his body heat. "I could pick a park that you would love, with lots of hiking and fishing, lakes," he punctuated each word with a small nibbling kiss. "Mountains." He paused at the corner of Dean's mouth. "What do you think?" he whispered.

Dean caught his lips, chasing the tongue that playfully edged his teeth and yanking his hips close. "I think you're an asshole who doesn't fight fair," he growled.

Cas laughed softly and set Dean aside. "That's because I'm never fighting." He toyed with Dean's fingers before dropping his hand. "Let's go outside and walk the trail."

The first stop was a house, or the remains of a house.

"He was born here?" Dean asked skeptically. The foundation was intact and there were short pieces of all four walls, but on the whole it looked too pristinely staged to be real.

"It's a mock up," Cas confirmed, reading the placard.

"Then what's the point?" Dean groused. He shaded his eyes to scan the trail into the trees. "Let's go make out in the woods."

Cas laughed and let Dean drag him down the narrow paved path.

It took an inordinately long time for them to make it another quarter of a mile to the little bridge crossing a stream. When they stared over the edge into the water below, Dean was amused to see Cas' untidy hair in their reflection.

"You're a mess," he pointed out helpfully.

Cas patted his head, straightening and frowning at Dean. "You have a hickey, right there." He touched the edge of Dean's Adam's apple.

Dean reached up to rub the spot. "Liar," he protested, then leaned over the rail again to peer into the water. He couldn't see anything. "No, I don't," he said, standing.

Cas' mouth descended before he had time to flinch.

But his groan echoed through the trees.

Cas smacked his lips and sauntered down the trail toward a small bronze statue. "You do now," he tossed over his shoulder.

Dean studied the bronze boy when he caught up. "So this is George Washington Carver."

"Uh huh," Cas murmured, reading the brochure he had picked up in the visitor's center.

"The peanut man."

"Among other things." Cas' smile was tolerant and affectionate, the one Dean liked to think of as his _professor look._

"You want to lecture me, don't you?" Dean mused. He reached up to knock a stray leaf from Cas' shoulder. Maybe they shouldn't brush up against any more trees; poison oak was probably rampant in these woods.

"I do not," Cas protested, straightening.

"You're a terrible liar, Professor." Dean couldn't resist the hum of attraction, the one that called for him to touch and take and grasp, so he grabbed Cas' hips, turning him back toward the worn path. He kissed the back of his neck for good measure before taking his hand. "Give me all you got."

Cas chuckled, but opened the brochure to read to Dean about George's early life on the farm as a slave.

Dean found the farmhouse small but sweet.

He thought the lake looked primed for skinnydipping.

He loved the way Cas' eyes glinted in the sunlight and reflected the green of the trees when they were back in the woods.

He had no earthly idea what Cas shared with him about George Washington Carver.

But he liked the timbre of his voice and the brush of his hand and the way he still smelled like the shampoo they had shared that morning in the shower.

At the end of the trail Cas insisted on reading every headstone in the small family cemetery.

"So are these real dead people or fakes for the tourists?" Dean studied the headstones, some of them clearly very old.

"Real," Cas said, squatting in front of a particularly small one.

Dean rested his hip against the short stone fence, gazing at the wildflowers, watching the butterflies and the bumblebees flit across the prairie and admiring the way the sun fell across Cas' back. He wished briefly that he had thought to bring the camera (and thank God Sammy wasn't here to tease him about his sentimentality).

He moved to the shade when he started to sweat.

He jumped when cool lips brushed his ear. "I like cemeteries," Cas said silkily.

Dean chuckled. "You would." He turned and kissed him. "You ready to hit the road?"

Cas nodded and they made their way back to the parking lot, where the impala waited.

They were two miles down the road when Cas rolled down the window to prop an elbow in the opening. "You're going the wrong way."

"No I'm not." Dean said confidently.

Cas shrugged. "Yes, you are."

Two miles later they dropped down a gully and the road became rougher, unkempt. Unfamiliar.

Dean glanced at his passenger. "Not a word."

Cas gave him a thumbs up, free hand tapping the roof of the impala as Dean slowed to find a place to turn around.

"Stop!"

Dean slammed on the brakes and they both grabbed the dash.

"Fuck, Cas! What?"

Cas was already halfway out the door. "Cemetery."

"For the love of—" Dean huffed and pulled the impala as close to the ditch as he dared; there were no shoulders on rural roads, just road and ditch. Sometimes just cow path and ditch.

Cas was already climbing over a ragged barbwire fence, wildflowers and prairie grasses waist high.

"Cas," Dean called, slamming the driver's door and following him. "What the hell are you doing?"

Cas disappeared entirely when he kneeled in the grass. Dean climbed over the fence and stomped his way to his side.

"You're going to get ticks."

"This is old," Cas murmured, running a hand over the ancient stone. When Dean didn't respond he reached up and grabbed his wrist, yanking him to the ground beside him.

"Okay, okay," Dean chuckled, their shoulders bumping as he found his balance. His fingers followed Cas' over the sun-warmed marker. "You and dead people," he murmured.

Cas wrinkled his nose, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry you got stuck with a man who digs up ghosts for a living?"

Dean shook his head and pulled Cas to his feet. "Not ghosts. People." He kissed his cheek and turned to leave the cemetery. When Cas started to follow him Dean held up a hand. "You stay here."

"Why," Cas called, amused. "You leaving me with the dead people to teach me a lesson?"

Dean chuckled, ducking into the back seat for the backpack he had started keeping there for Cas' side trips. When he returned he produced a sheet of plain white paper and a pack of crayons from a restaurant kids meal. Cas' face lit up.

"Go on then," he said, pushing the items into Cas' hands. "I'll be in the car, taking a nap."

Dean dozed, radio turned low, windows down so that a sweet-smelling breeze blew through the car, assorted country sounds wafting lazily across his consciousness. When the passenger door opened, he blinked sleepily and sat up, yawning. "All set?"

Cas leaned across the seat and kissed him, mouth warmed from the sun. He hummed in satisfaction. "Mm hmm."

Dean tugged his seatbelt into place and started the car, looking pointedly at Cas' own belt.

Cas chuckled and set the paper he was holding between them, securing himself in his seat with a _click_.

Dean picked up the sheet of paper, studying the crayoning, trying to decipher the faintly visible words. "I can't read it."

"That's because it was so faded, worn away by rain and wind and sun," Cas murmured, running a finger across the dark purple marks on the page.

"Something tells me you can read it," Dean said, maneuvering the impala between the narrow lines of the road until he had reversed their direction.

"It says, _Joyful I lay this body down, And leave this lifeless clay, Without a fight without a groan, I wing my flight away_."

Cas was quiet as he examined the paper etching.

"You wing your flight away without me and we're going to have words," Dean offered gruffly, breaking the suddenly melancholy moment.

Cas smiled and tossed the paper and the pack of crayons into the back seat. "Duly noted."

"Where to next," Dean asked, handing Cas his stupid iPhone.

"Fort Scott National Historic Site," Cas said, fiddling with the phone to pull up the next map.

"Well at least there will be guns."

"Ahhh," Cas shrugged sheepishly. "Maybe?"

"Aw, come on," Dean muttered. "It's a _fort_."

Cas' hand migrated across the center of the seat until Dean's found it, clasping warm and tight and gut wrenchingly familiar.

"I packed your civil war uniform," Cas mentioned casually as they turned onto the interstate fifteen minutes later.

Dean perked up. "Well all right, then."

Cas grinned and squeezed his hand. "It was more for me than for you."

Dean waggled his eyebrows. "I know that."

Five more miles.

"Dean?"

"Cas."

"Can you speak in that really awful southern accent when you're wearing it?"

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. "You and your kinks, professor."

"Is that a yes," Cas slipped out of his seatbelt and across the seat, prepared to negotiate.

Dean tilted his head to bare his neck, prepared to accept negotiations. "That's a—" His words broke off on a faint groan when Cas licked a delicate stripe across the pulse fluttering in his throat. "Yes," he gasped.

Cas tongued the spot again for good measure, squeezing Dean's thigh.

"You will be fairly compensated, good sir," Cas said tartly, brashly abusing Dean's own Colonial kink before sliding back into place across the car.

Dean sighed happily. "I really love history."

Cas snorted and turned up the radio. "That's because I wrap it in sex first."

Dean grinned, tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel as he crossed the Kansas state line. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

…


End file.
